


The Boy Who Believed in Magic

by Writcraft



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M, Pining, Porn with Feelings, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-01
Updated: 2016-01-01
Packaged: 2018-05-10 21:51:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5602345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Writcraft/pseuds/Writcraft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Everybody knows that everybody dies. But not every day. Not today. Some days are special. Some days are so, so blessed. Some days, nobody dies at all</i> - Harry’s struggling to find his way after the war. His love life is in tatters and he’s harbouring some very confusing feelings for Severus Snape which he hasn’t confronted since the final battle. An anniversary party for Molly and Arthur throws Severus and Harry together and Severus helps Harry to find the right path.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Boy Who Believed in Magic

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Snape Potter's holiday fest 2015. Thank you to the ever wonderful torino10154 for being a wonderfully patient mod and a super friend. The quote in the summary is from Doctor Who but there’s no crossover/time travel aspect to the fic. It’s just a fitting quote.

_Your hands are covered in blood and soil and the air tastes like dust. The world doesn’t turn and the clocks stop. You stand on a crevice in time and watch the shadows of everything that went before move behind his eyes._

_The night is so dark you can’t even see the stars, until he opens his hand and gives you moonbeams in a jar._

_“Look at me.”_

_You look and, finally, you see._

_His cheeks are copper, salt and cinnamon. His hair is slick in your hand. His memories are yours, to do with as you will. His breath falters from a war-torn throat and you want so badly it makes your chest tight and your lungs burn. You want. You want him to live a thousand more tomorrows. You want to feel his heart drum against yours and you want to say all the things time snatches away._

_That’s how it is. Just a moment suspended in time and a ‘what could have been’ that stumbles away from you; lost somewhere dark and cold. It’s just another last breath from battle weary lips. A different body bleeding and fresh scarlet stripes on your aching fingertips._

_So you kiss him. Not because he’ll hear the sorry, sorry, sorry that falls between your lips and his. Not for comfort, pity, anger or rage._

_You kiss him because you think no one should die without one. You kiss him because it’s the unexpected loss of him that makes you alive to the future that might have been and shows you a thousand unspoken promises you never knew you wanted to keep._

_But most of all, you kiss him because there was a time when you were just a boy._

_A boy who believed in magic._

~ * ~

Harry wants to be happy to be there, really he does. It’s a gorgeous, bright winter day. The frost clings to the trees like snowflakes and the air is fresh with the scent of the season. The sky is blue and indoors the fire crackles and the scent of mulled wine fills the small room. The tree is decked with romantic baubles, heart-shaped reds and golds which glitter and shine in the candlelight.

_Molly and Arthur_

Harry can’t help but smile at the photographs set out in the room. They are grainy black and white: pictures of a young looking Arthur capturing Molly off-guard under the mistletoe. There’s a small photograph from a long time ago where Arthur’s still in his school robes, sitting next to Molly in the Gryffindor common room with an arm around her shoulder. There’s one of Molly, her hand over a rounded belly as she beams at the camera and Arthur’s hand moves protectively over hers. If anyone deserves this, it’s Molly and Arthur. 

There’s nowhere he’d rather be over the holidays than with his friends and family. There’s nobody he’d rather celebrate an important anniversary with than Molly and Arthur. That’s why he’s lingering by the photographs, instead of venturing into the room next door which bursts with the laughter and chatter of a large group of guests, obviously. Because he’s happy.

Harry pulls a face and makes his way to the bar, where the barman looks bored out of his mind. He’s sending sparks of magic into the air and then pulling his wand back to turn the lines into different shapes before the sparks fade away to nothing.

“Impressive.” Harry leans against the bar and the barman snorts.

“Says Harry Potter? Don’t take the piss, mate.”

“I wasn’t. Really.” Despite himself the uncomfortable feeling of being recognised creeps over Harry and he checks to see if his hair’s still covering his scar. Not that any kind of hair style helps these days, when he’s front page news on a regular basis. He should probably get a hat for this kind of thing, or Polyjuice. “I thought it looked good.”

“Oh.” The barman looks floored. His eyes narrow as he studies Harry, still looking undecided about whether to trust Harry or not. “Aren’t you supposed to be in with that lot? There’s mulled wine cocktails.”

“I know.” Harry tries not to sound as gloomy as he feels. “Any good?”

“Good enough.” The barman shrugs. “If you like that sort of thing. Want one?”

“Might as well.” Just one drink can’t hurt. He’ll definitely go in and join the party just as soon as he’s finished his drink. “Thanks.”

“Welcome.” The barman laughs as he makes Harry’s cocktail. “Can’t believe I’m making Harry Potter a mulled wine cocktail. Wait until Dan hears about this.”

“Dan?”

“My fella.” The barman finishes the cocktail with a flourish and hands it to Harry. “Doesn’t bother you, does it?”

Harry’s takes a sip of the drink and raises his eyebrows. The barman either doesn’t read the _Prophet_ or he’s deliberately fishing for information on Harry’s non-existent love life. “Why would it bother me?”

The barman shrugs again. “Some people are funny about it.” His eyes slide over Harry briefly and he gives him a smile, enthusiastic now Harry has a drink in his hand and doesn’t seem to be in a rush to get anywhere. “Not you, though. Am I right?” He leans closer with a wink. “Me and Dan have an arrangement. You’re on my list. Free pass and all that.”

Christ. How do people do that? Harry wonders if he’s wearing an enormous sign saying _I’m pathetically lonely, available for random shags and marriage proposals_. “I’m flattered.” He really isn’t. A list, for fuck’s sake. 

“There’s you, the bloke from the Howling Banshees, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Draco Malfoy – he’s gorgeous – and that Muggle chap off the telly. Do you watch anything Muggle?”

“No television,” Harry replies. Televisions don’t work in Grimmauld Place and the last thing Harry needs is to sit around watching films about other people falling in love when he should be out there falling in love himself. Not that he’s holding out much hope for that. He’d settle for a bottle of wine, spaghetti bolognese and a bit of a snog with someone at this point.

“I’m here all weekend.” The barman gives Harry another smile, his cheeks dimpled. He’s more attractive than he has any right to be and Harry’s body heats. He’s got no intention of sleeping with someone who puts him on a list with Draco bloody Malfoy, but it’s been too long since he’s had a proper night with someone. He misses taking his time with another person in a large, warm bed, then talking until the sun comes up. He misses the heat of another person’s body against his own and the way the sheets rustle and the bed creaks when it’s full of two people who can’t get enough of one another. The odd semi-public blowjob in the loos doesn’t do much for Harry these days.

“Good to know. Thanks for the drink…”

“Steve.” The barman extends his hand for the shaking and keeps his firm grip on Harry’s just a moment too long.

“Well, well. If it isn’t the great Harry Potter, charming the staff with his distinguished celebrity.” The voice behind Harry is low, scornful and achingly familiar. “I was hoping for a drink but far be it from me to intrude.”

“You’re not intruding.” Harry yanks his hand from Steve’s and turns, his breath leaving him in a rush. He puts out his hand and Snape pointedly ignores it.

“I’ll have whatever Potter’s having.” Snape takes a seat on the stool next to Harry before turning to him with a scowl. “Shouldn’t you be inside?”

Harry frowns. “Shouldn’t _you_?”

“I’m not exactly part of Molly and Arthur’s furniture.” Snape takes a sip of his drink and glares at Harry. “What on earth is this?”

“A mulled wine cocktail.” Harry musters a bright smile largely to piss off Snape. “Good, isn’t it?”

“Not in the slightest.” Snape has another sip anyway. The silence stretches between them until Harry’s skin gets hot all over and he’s ready to say anything just to break the thick, quiet tension between them.

“It’s been a while.”

Snape responds with a non-committal grunt. “Nearly five years since…”

“Since I thought you died.” Harry’s throat constricts and he glances at Snape out of the corner of his eye. Snape very nearly _did_ die and people bleeding to death definitely don’t remember being kissed. Do they? He swallows, the thought making his palms clammy. “But you didn’t. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Snape replies, his tone dry. 

“Not as though we haven’t seen each other since then, though. It’d be difficult not to when we’re both at the Ministry all the time.” Harry hopes he sounds casual and not like he notices Snape every single time they find themselves in a room together. Even large Ministry corridors feel small when Snape’s present. The bar they’re sitting at puts hardly any space between them at all and Harry can almost taste the cinnamon and salt against his lips. The coppery scent of blood fills his nostrils and the sounds of battle rage above the light Christmas jingles. He has to take another drink, a breath faltering from his lips. The shift of Snape in the seat next to Harry brings him back to the present and the shouts of witches and wizards at war fade to a dull roar until they eventually disappear to nothing.

When he looks up, Snape is contemplating him with a piercing stare. “I wasn’t aware you noticed.”

It’s all Harry can do to swallow back a snort of laughter because Snape has no idea. No idea of the hours Harry has spent _noticing_ him. “I did.” 

“You always seem rather busy.” Snape’s voice is cool and a rush of shame claws through Harry’s body, making his heart clench. Even now, Snape leaves him unsettled and edgy as if he’s cross that Harry wouldn’t think to say hello – as if Snape would ever invite small talk instead of stalking past with a scowl on his face and without so much as a glance in Harry’s direction. 

“Didn’t think you’d want me interrupting you at work. Anyway, you wouldn’t be interested in standing around talking about the weather with me.” Harry shrugs, thankful his voice doesn’t give him away. 

“Not about the weather, no.” Snape’s lips twist and he drains the rest of his cocktail. He glances at the bustling room and winces. “I should let Arthur know I’ve arrived.”

“Me too.” Harry looks at his empty glass and turns it in place. When he looks up again the joke about solidarity and safety in numbers dies on his lips. 

There’s just an empty seat at the bar and he turns just in time to see Snape disappear into the room where the party sounds like it’s just getting started.

“Bye, then.” Pulling a face, he orders another cocktail and follows Snape’s lead.

*

 

“Here again, Potter?” Snape’s voice is smooth and low as he slides into the seat opposite Harry. 

“Here again.” Harry’s definitely had one too many mulled wine cocktails. He dimly remembers jumping on Charlie’s back and being run around the room to whoops and hollers from their friends. He thinks he made a brilliant joke about riding dragons, but he can’t remember it now. He fumbles for the Santa’s hat on his head and tugs it off, dropping it on the table. “Probably look like a right idiot.”

“Yes.” Snape’s nothing if not honest, but his lips twitch as he contemplates Harry. “You wouldn’t rather be with your friends than sitting alone in the bar?”

Harry shrugs. “My friends have gone to bed. I’m not in any rush. It’s not like I’ve got anyone to go to bed with.” His cheeks heat and he shuts his mouth quickly before he can say anything else. Snape spends half his time scowling and avoiding Harry. He’s definitely not going to give two hoots about Harry’s miserable love life.

“I see.” Snape arches an eyebrow at Harry and then gestures to the bar. “Perhaps another drink is in order, in that case?”

Harry swallows. “With you?”

“I am not in any rush either.” Snape isn’t smiling, he’s just giving Harry a strange, dark stare.

“Okay.” Harry wonders when his ability to form actual sentences left him. He musters a smile and watches as Snape goes to the bar. There’s something different about him. He’s not in his usual voluminous robes and can’t quite carry off the same level of bat-like swooping without all the loose folds of material hanging from his body. Instead he’s wearing fitted cotton black trousers which show off every slim line of his legs. His shirt is plain and unobtrusive, tucked in to his trousers and rolled up at the sleeve. When he turns and leans against the bar, Harry notices the long scar on Snape’s neck which curves from below his ear to his collarbone, where the shirt is unbuttoned at the neck. Harry forces himself to pull his gaze away before he’s caught staring.

“You seem fond of hideous cocktails. I thought this might be to your liking.” Snape gives Harry a smirk and puts a creamy looking monstrosity in front of him, taking a long drink of his own much more normal looking pint of ale.

“Thanks?” Harry frowns at Snape but when he takes a sip of the drink it’s actually quite good. It’s thick and chocolatey and warming. The creamy liquid slides down his throat and he can feel his mouth form a little ‘o’ of pleasure as he takes another sip through the straw. When he looks up, Snape is watching him intently, his stare even darker than usual. “I’m a bit old for drinks like this.”

Snape waves his hand. “You’re hardly old.” 

“Feels like it, sometimes.” Harry takes another long sip of the drink and lets a soft _hmm_ of appreciation enter the space between them. He notices the way Snape’s fingers curl into a fist and stretch out again and he tries not to focus too much on the elegant length of them.

After a silence which stretches between them, Snape finally speaks again. His voice isn’t as smooth as before, a slight gruff edge to his tone as he picks up Harry’s hat and turns it in his hands. “I’m surprised to find Harry Potter of all people propping up the bar and going to bed alone.”

“Par for the course, really.” Harry shrugs and looks at Snape. “At least it seems to be these days.”

“I had assumed you would have your pick of…potential suitors.” There’s a question in Snape’s words, as if he’s seeking confirmation of a sort from Harry. “Was I mistaken?”

Harry thinks about the flowers he gets sent on a regular basis and the way people push to be close to him in bars. He thinks of the number of times he’s met a Steve the barman looking for a night with the Wizarding world’s biggest celebrity. He wonders how many times he’s wanted to sink into the floor and just meet someone normal – someone who doesn’t want Harry to be the big war hero the press seem to paint him as. 

“None of the wizards I meet want anything serious.” Harry really doesn’t want to talk about this because he’s just tipsy enough to tell Snape every last one of his secrets and he definitely doesn’t want to do _that_. Not when the biggest secret of all involves Snape himself. “Or they do, but they’ve read me all wrong. I’m not in the habit of stumbling across people whose idea of me is compatible with what I want.”

Something flares in Snape’s eyes and he sips his beer, watching Harry over the rim of his glass. “I see.”

Harry can’t seem to stop talking now Snape’s opened the floodgates. That’ll teach Snape to suggest Harry’s not very friendly. If Snape wants conversation, he’s going to get it. “Now everyone I’m close to has paired up. They’re getting on with their lives and I’m still going to Muggle bars by myself, pretending I do something in advertising.” 

Snape lets out a snort. “Of course you do.” He pinches the bridge of his nose as if he’s aggravated by Harry’s presence and then returns to his beer, his eyebrows knitted in a frown. “Do you imagine a Muggle could ever truly give you what you desire?”

The way Snape says desire makes Harry’s heart hammer in his chest and he lets the warm alcohol slide down his throat before answering. “There’s nothing wrong with Muggles. At least they don’t expect me to be in charge all the time.” Harry cheeks heat because he definitely doesn’t want to start getting into some of the things wizards seem to expect him to want to do in bed. There’s been enough speculation about his preferences in the Prophet, all of it hopelessly off base as usual.

Snape purses his lips. “If that is all you’re looking for, I imagine your Muggle conquests would be as good as any.”

“Don’t do that.” A wave of anger makes Harry’s heart twist and he glares at Snape. “Don’t make it sound like I’m doing something wrong. It’s not like I go to bars all the time. Hardly at all, lately. Anyway, I’m not going to sit around doing nothing – I’m not going to give up looking.”

Snape turns his eyes to the ceiling, ignoring Harry’s irritation. “I suppose your Muggles understand the war? I imagine they are very helpful when you’re trying to explain how it feels to have somebody die in your arms.”

Harry’s skin prickles as he stares at Snape. A flash of cradling Snape’s upper body in his arms and pressing their lips together with garbled apologies and whispers of what could have been pulses through his body. “Perhaps not. Blokes in Muggle bars aren’t really looking for war stories. I wouldn’t talk about it with them.”

“Then you’re back to other wizards.” Snape’s eyes flicker but his expression smooths. “I find it hard to believe there isn’t _one_ good match out of such a large pool of candidates?” 

Harry narrows his eyes because he’s pretty sure Snape’s taking the piss out of him. He stares Snape down for a charged moment and relents when Snape doesn’t smirk or sneer, deciding to take his question at face value. He’ll regret this in the morning, but Snape’s voice makes him feel warm from head to toe, like he could slide down the seat and close his eyes – letting the low murmur of Snape’s voice lull him to sleep. 

“You’ve forgotten about my...how did you put it? My _distinguished celebrity_. It’s not just people reading me wrong, it’s about finding someone who isn’t going to go to the papers the next day and start talking about the size of my cock.”

Snape lets out a huff of laughter and his eyes sweep over Harry’s body. “I’m sure the accounts have been grossly exaggerated, much like the countless articles that seem to suggest you intend to develop your own line of potions.”

Harry wants to sink underneath the table and disappear. Of all the things he imagined speaking to Snape about, the size of his cock was definitely not one of them. Merlin, he must be pissed. He’s going to have to spend tomorrow avoiding Snape and nursing a stonking hangover. He’s already dreading it. He pulls the conversation as far away from parts of his anatomy as possible and clears his throat.

“I’m not as good as you, not by a long shot, but I’ve started to take potions a bit more seriously. The stuff about making up anything of my own is rubbish, obviously. I don’t know where they get this stuff from. Still, I enjoy it a bit more these days.” 

Harry can’t bring himself to tell Snape that there’s something about the laboratory in the Ministry which reminds him of Snape’s rooms at Hogwarts. The scent from the potions, the numerous cobwebby bottles and the slow, patient stirring until the liquid begins to take on the right translucency – the right sheen – is something Harry finds strangely therapeutic. He was always too impatient to spend the time carefully brewing something, but now just the peace and quiet of the small room tucked away towards the end of the Ministry corridors are exactly what he needs on occasion. Usually when he’s thinking about the war or about to go off on a mission. He takes himself away and spends countless hours poring over books and learning to make one new concoction after another.

“I heard a rumour that was the case.” Snape studies Harry. “I believe Arthur may have mentioned something about a funny habit of yours. I refused to believe it, given your distinct lack of intellectual rigour when you were at school.”

“Of course you did.” Harry snorts with laughter, a little embarrassed about Snape knowing about his secret sanctuary and hoping he doesn’t start making any connections. “Arthur was looking for me once and I think he thought I was going barmy, surrounded by newts’ eyes and flobberworms.” Harry looks at Snape, wishing the heat in his face would calm. That day, Harry had ended up telling Arthur all sorts, after all. He’s still embarrassed about the way Arthur pulled him into a tight hug when he let everything spill out. He hopes Arthur didn’t mention any of _that_ to Snape.

“I’m sure he did.” Snape sounds almost amused, like he’s teasing Harry. He’s still giving him the same piercing look, although his eyes slide over Harry’s body, his voice liquid smooth. Harry has to regulate his breathing, wondering what the fuck was in his cocktail that makes Snape’s voice sound like the best kind of porn, sliding through his veins and shooting into his heart until it pounds restlessly in his chest. “How…unexpected.”

“Yeah,” Harry mutters. He rubs his cheek and nods at Snape’s nearly finished pint. “Do you want another? My round.”

Snape responds with a curt nod of his head and Harry makes his way to the bar, taking particular care not to do something stupid, just in case Snape’s still watching him.

*

 

This time Harry gets a strong coffee and drinks it, even when there’s no sugar and it’s scalding hot against his tongue.

“You are aware it’s nearly midnight?” Snape eyes Harry’s coffee and arches his eyebrow, clearly wondering why he’s decided caffeine is a good idea just before bed.

“I wouldn’t want you to be accused of getting me drunk.” Harry grins at Snape. “People might talk. Besides, I don’t sleep much.”

“Is that so?” Snape’s lips twitch and he takes a deep drink of his pint. Harry watches the way his throat works, following the curve of the scar to where it disappears behind crisp white cotton. He tears his eyes away and looks up to find Snape watching him. “If people were to talk, what do you imagine they might say?”

Harry’s sip of coffee goes down the wrong way and he splutters until Snape hands him a napkin, cool as you like. He takes it and wipes his mouth, using the moment to recover and have another steadying drink. The coffee clears his head a little and he refuses to let Snape see the impact he has on Harry.

“All sorts.” Harry flicks his tongue over his lips, meeting Snape’s stare head on. “I bet they’d say you corrupted me, Professor.” He draws out the word and bites back a smile when Snape’s eyes darken. Harry’s enjoying this more than he should. “They might make up stories about how you like to put me in detention and make me do all sorts of filthy things for you, like suck you under your desk when you’re wearing those robes of yours or something. I bet they’d say you love having me on my knees.”

Fucking hell. Where did _that_ come from? A rush of heat floods through Harry’s body and he sits back quickly. He doesn’t even know if Snape likes other wizards. Even if he does, he certainly doesn’t like _Harry_. Why on earth did he say something like that? The silence becomes a tense, uncomfortable thing which settles between them. Harry wonders if he should just Apparate before Snape can hex him or – worse – respond. Harry wants to disappear. He opens his mouth to say something – anything – when Snape cuts him off by holding up his hand as if to say _don’t_.

“You seem to have given this rather a lot of thought.” Snape’s eyes are dark and firmly fixed on Harry, his words as low and smooth as they’ve ever been. He doesn’t sound cross. He sounds almost…interested. “I believe I will retire for the evening.”

Snape stands, his half-finished point making Harry’s stomach knot as the warm air around them feels suddenly cold. The hazy, half-drunk feeling leaves him and Harry’s as sober as he’s ever been and wondering if he might be sick. He stands because it’s the polite thing to do and nods, looking anywhere he can that isn’t directly at Snape.

“Okay. Night then.”

“Goodnight, Potter.” Snape’s voice isn’t just low and delicious. It’s warm breath on Harry’s ear. It’s lips against Harry’s skin, just for a fleeting moment. Snape’s hand rests on the small of Harry’s back and – oh gods he’s still talking and Harry can hardly hear him over the _thud, thud_ of his restless heart. “I, too, don’t require much sleep.”

With that Snape leaves, the final press of parchment in Harry’s hand and the sensation of long slender fingers against his own burning Harry’s skin. When he’s quite sure Snape isn’t still there watching him, Harry unfolds the parchment and stares at the number written there in fastidious, familiar script.

25.

Harry takes the half-finished drinks to the bar and sits on a stool, staring into space.

“Harry Potter. They told me you were here.” It’s a new barman this time, cleaning the glasses with a flick of his wand. “Fancy a drink?”

Harry shakes his head. “Not for me, thanks. Just taking a moment.”

“Right you are, then. Everything okay?”

Harry stares at the parchment again, tracing his fingers over the number. A giddy burst of laughter leaves him and he nods, shoving the parchment into his pocket and standing.

“Brilliant. I hope.”

With a whistle he makes his way up the stairs, adrenaline and the memory of Snape’s breath on his neck making him walk as quickly as he can.

*

 

Despite his initial confidence, it takes Harry a moment to compose himself when he’s finally there – outside room number twenty-five. He rubs his hands on his jeans, drawing a shaky breath and shifting in place. Perhaps he shouldn’t have taken so long? Snape might have gone to bed and given up waiting for him. Harry might have misunderstood and this might not be Snape’s room at all. Harry cringes, imagining Molly opening the door in her nightie and inviting Harry in so he can sob into a cup of tea and completely ruin their anniversary.

“Bugger.” Harry raises his hand, hovering in mid-air while he talks himself into taking a chance. He knocks lightly on the door in case the person – or people – inside are still sleeping. It’s just loud enough to be heard by someone listening for a knock on the door and just quiet enough not to disturb anyone who isn’t. He hopes. The thud of his knuckles against the wood does sound awfully loud in the quiet corridor and he wonders what people would think if they could see him responding so eagerly to a proposition from his former professor.

The door opens and Snape’s standing there, his shirt unbuttoned a little further than it was in the bar. The sight of him hits Harry harder than he ever expected it to. It feels like he’s spent so long thinking about Snape it’s some kind of strange, surreal dream which is happening to someone other than him. The way the flash of pleasure in Snape’s eyes makes his heart jump and his breathing falter takes Harry by surprise. He’s going to lose his mind if Snape doesn’t invite him in. He’s going to start saying all the things he shouldn’t if he can’t touch Snape – can’t lose himself in the kind of kisses he’s imagined all of this time – the kind where the person on the receiving end kisses back and doesn’t die.

“I suppose you should come in then.” Snape steps to the side and waves Harry into the room. Despite his words, his tone reassures Harry that maybe his visit isn’t an unwanted one. The “Hurry up, Potter” confirms it.

“Thanks.” Harry wanders into the room and looks around, breathing in the scent of Snape. There’s the smell of his light, musky cologne. There’s a neatly packed suitcase full of monochrome and grey jumpers which look impossibly warm and soft. There’s a large book next to the bedside table and reading glasses, which are unexpected. There’s something so intimate about being in Snape’s room – even just his hotel room – it takes Harry’s breath away. His eyes flickers to the bed and he has to swallow around the lump in his throat. It’s tidy but rumpled, as if Snape had been lying there reading, waiting for Harry to knock on the door. He imagines what it would be like to see Snape like that – relaxed and unwound after a day at the Ministry.

Harry shakes his head because he can’t think like that. This is just for tonight. He knows better than to think Snape would want any kind of boyfriend, particularly not Harry. He swallows back the wave of sadness which overwhelms him and he shakes his head clear of those kind of thoughts. He’s wanted this for ages and if it’s just a night – well – it’s good enough for him. 

“What’s going on in that head of yours?” Snape’s turns Harry so they’re facing each other at last. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you so blissfully quiet.”

Harry laughs at that and he looks up at Snape. “Nothing. I’m not thinking anything.”

“I see.” Snape’s thumb rubs over Harry’s cheek and even just that light touch has Harry’s heart tripping in his chest. If he can react like that to the slow sweep of Snape’s thumb against his cheek, he’s not going to be able to get through the night without making a fool of himself. “Well, then. Perhaps I should distract you from those thoughts you’re not having?”

Harry realises he’s been walked back against the wall and Snape’s body is pressed close against his. He licks his lips and nods, noting the way Snape’s eyes darken when he flicks his tongue over his lips. “I think…I think maybe you should.”

Any other coherent sentence leaves Harry when Snape’s lips connect with his. He’d half expected an awkward kiss, a fumbling finding their way together. Never in all of his fantasies had he expected Snape to kiss like _this_. It’s a hard, searching kiss that finally explains what weak at the knees really means. Snape pushes Harry closer to the wall, his hand gripping Harry’s chin and the other sliding into his hair. Harry responds with breathless eagerness, the groan which leaves him so loud in the room he almost wants to claw it back before Snape can make fun of him for wanting this – for wanting Snape – so badly. Snape doesn’t make fun of Harry. He seems to like the sounds Harry makes when he’s being thoroughly kissed, if the reactions of his body are anything to go by. He tugs his fingers through Harry’s hair, tipping his head back and kissing deep into his mouth. The hand on Harry’s chin slides to Harry’s hip and then around his waist, pulling him closer into the kiss. Harry’s whole body is hot and sensitised to every caress of Snape’s mouth against his own – each demanding, urgent kiss pulling his breath from his body in ragged puffs and pants. 

“I…Professor…” Snape seems wrong somehow and it spills out of Harry’s lips, causing Snape to pull back and growl out Severus before pulling Harry into another head-spinning kiss.

Severus. Severus, Severus, Severus. Harry rolls the name around in his head, pushing his hands into Severus’ hair and drawing him eagerly back into the kiss. His body moves almost of its own accord, his trousers tight and uncomfortable and every inch of him seeking the friction of Severus’ body against his own. Severus pushes his leg between Harry’s, pushing up against him and giving him the friction he’s seeking, and it makes Harry see stars.

This is how he’s always wanted it to be. Someone who knows him. Someone who knows where he’s strong, where he’s weak. Someone who knows every last bit of Harry’s history and who doesn’t expect him to put on Auror robes and take control of every last thing. It’s like he’s never been kissed before now – not like this. No Muggles against nightclub walls or wizards sliding to their knees have ever made Harry feel as hot, restless and urgent as he feels now. He grinds against Severus without reservation as Severus’ hands find their way to his backside, pulling their bodies so close together it’s like there’s not even a sliver of air between them. 

When Severus manoeuvres them away from the wall and towards the bed, Harry breaks the kiss for long enough to kick off his shoes and stretch out on the rumpled sheets. Severus doesn’t join him immediately. Instead he looks at Harry, stretched out and waiting for him. Harry’s sure his cheeks are flushed and his hair is probably everywhere and he wonders what Severus must think, his stare impenetrable and intense.

“Look at you,” Severus murmurs. He moves over Harry and his voice is low and gruff. “Foolish boy.”

“Am I?” Harry’s voice is rough and his fingers work at the buttons on Severus’ shirt as he presses up into him. 

“Yes. You are.” Severus mouths his words against Harry’s neck, sending shivers through Harry’s body. The way Severus calls him foolish doesn’t sound like an insult. It sounds almost fond, as if he’s been waiting for Harry to come to him like this all of this time.

Severus opens the buckle on Harry’s trousers, his teeth grazing Harry’s neck. He sits back for just long enough to help Harry out of his jumper and sends it to the chair with a flick of his hand and not a single word spoken.

“Impressive.” It really is, but Harry’s all too aware of how breathless and eager his voice must sound when he says it. He’s rewarded with a smirk and another dark, loaded stare. He kicks out of his trousers and underpants as Severus pushes them down his hips, until he’s naked beneath an only slightly rumpled but still fully clothed Severus. “Hey. That’s not fair.”

“Life isn’t fair, Harry.” Severus’ voice is rich and warm, a low hum against Harry’s skin. Harry has the distinct impression he’s being teased again but he decides to let it slide because Severus is doing something amazing with his tongue along the curve of Harry’s neck. 

“I want you to fuck me.” Harry’s words leave him in a rush. He wants Severus to know because if they’re only going to get this one time, he doesn’t want to waste it on quick hand jobs and a kiss goodnight. He wants to feel the stretch of Severus deep inside him. He wants to do everything but he’s so close to the edge he’s worried he’s not going to be able to hold off and so he needs to say it as soon as he can. “I don’t need much…well…you know.” Harry’s cheeks heat because it’s not strictly true. He hasn’t had sex for quite a while, but god knows what’s going to happen if Severus uses his fingers on Harry. Even the thought of it sends a shudder of pleasure through Harry’s body and he has to bite back a ragged groan.

Severus stops what he’s doing to Harry’s neck and shifts back, brushing a little of Harry’s hair from his forehead. He makes Harry look at him, until Harry wonders if he might drown in his stare. “Is there a reason you are eager to get this over and done with?”

Damn Severus for spending all that time with those books of his and getting to the point quicker than most. Harry shuts his eyes against the room and he breathes out slow, his words thankfully steady. “I’m not sure I’ll be able to last if we do anything else and…I want that. I really want that.”

Severus runs his thumb over Harry’s lip and the motion causes Harry to open his eyes again because that feels so good. “And what if I want to take my time with you?” He brushes his lips to Harry’s ear. “What if I would _enjoy_ feeling you come in my mouth or from my fingers?”

The words pull a soft moan from Harry’s lips and he doesn’t know how Severus can do that with a brush of his lips and that voice of his.

“Do we have time to do that as well?” Harry holds his breath as Severus looks at him again, his brow furrowing.

“As long as you wish.” 

_Forever_ , Harry thinks, but he can’t say that out loud. Instead he arches into Severus’ fingers as they stroke down his torso, making his thighs tremble a little. “Even tomorrow?”

Severus sighs and he stops doing that brilliant thing with his fingers and pinches the bridge of his nose again. “Potter, if I tell you that I am not in the habit of going to bed with wizards I see no future with, will you stop this infernal chatter and allow me to continue?”

Harry’s lips part at the word _future_ , a giddy, reckless feeling making his face break into a broad smile. He’s still smiling when Severus kisses him again, until the kisses become too brain-meltingly good to think of much else at all. 

Severus murmurs something against Harry’s lips and oh he knows that spell. He’s used it before, when he’s been by himself or with other wizards. He bites back what can only be described as a whimper as Severus slides his fingers between Harry’s legs, stroking back over his hole with a slick, confident touch. They rearrange themselves so Severus can have the best access, Severus stripping out of his shirt and Harry pulling up his knee. He drinks in the sight of Severus and tries to stop himself from making too much noise when Severus pushes his finger inside him. It’s so good and every inch of Harry’s already sensitive skin prickles with heat. He’s flushed and perspiring as he pushes back against Severus, light beads of sweat on his collarbone as he writhes underneath Severus and searches for another deep kiss. 

Severus obliges and Harry pushes against the slow curl of his finger, the drag back and forth and the sensations Severus can cause when he pushes inside Harry’s body. Severus breaks the kiss and mouths down Harry’s neck, biting at the exposed skin there and working a second finger inside Harry. He keeps his movements slow and steady, pushing into Harry’s body with almost maddening ease and taking his time to stroke inside Harry with the smallest curl of his fingers and the slowest push and pull.

When Harry pushes back for more and gasps out his pleas for another for harder for more, please, more, Severus comes undone. His kisses become fierce, possessive things as he makes his way down Harry’s torso. He pushes in with three fingers, hard and firm. He fucks Harry with them, his arm snapping back and forth until the most pornographic kind of sounds fall from Harry’s lips and it’s all he can do to hold himself together. There’s something so deliciously filthy about being finger-fucked and wanting it so much that Harry can barely breathe. The countless times he’s fantasised – the memories of long fingers curled around a quill – make Harry’s breath come in short, head-over-heels puffs of need and want. 

“Tell me…how it feels.” Harry has never heard Severus like this. His tone is commanding and gruff but in this context his words slide like fingers through Harry’s head and into his veins, where they follow the path to his heart. The look on Severus’ face is like nothing Harry has seen before; his eyes are dark, intense and possessive. The focus on Harry and his pleasure is almost too good and Harry tries to tell Severus so in a garbled string of bitten off words.

“So good…I can’t…please…” Harry shakes his head with a groan, arching back and then pushing back into Severus. “So close.”

“Then let yourself go.” Severus strokes his fingers inside Harry and it’s so good it makes his head spin. “Let me see you.” Severus shifts lower and _fuck_ he has the tip of his fourth finger inside Harry, stretching him and watching as Harry accepts everything he has to give. He moves back to three fingers so he can push them deep into Harry, lowering his head to suck Harry’s cock into his mouth until Harry’s coming on his tongue with a deep, guttural moan. 

Severus seems content when he shifts up beside Harry, sliding his fingers from him slowly. He presses their lips together briefly, letting Harry catch his breath.

“That…” Harry’s breath leaves him with a shudder and he turns to Severus, trying to form his words into a sentence that makes sense. “I’ve thought about that before.”

“Have you, indeed?” Severus doesn’t seem overly shocked, his fingers tracing patterns on Harry’s sensitive skin and sending another shiver of pleasure through Harry’s body. He murmurs in Harry’s ear, his voice practically a purr. “You’ll have to tell me what other things you think about when you’re in the privacy of your own home. I believe I may have underestimated your…creativity.”

“I can be very creative.” God, Harry can’t actually move. He’s languid and boneless, remembering how to breathe in and out, in and out. He reaches for Severus and tugs him into a slow, deep kiss. The kiss soon takes over them both until Harry’s rolling over to rock against Severus’ cock through his trousers, squeezing his thighs around him. The movement draws a sharp breath from Severus which Harry likes very much. He wonders what other sounds he can get out of Severus and he conducts his experiment with swipes of his tongue and nips of his teeth over Severus’ neck and down his torso tracing a haphazard, zig-zag path towards Severus’ cock. He unbuckles Severus’ trousers, letting Severus kick them off together with his underpants. 

“If you still wish to be fucked tonight you might have to stop whatever it is you’re doing.” Severus’ voice sounds amazing like this, broken and rough against Harry’s ears. He huffs a breath over Severus’ cock and brushes his lips along the length of it, drawing a low groan from Severus. Severus’ cock is a thing of beauty. It’s long and thick and just imagining it pushing inside his body, sliding against his tongue or pushing into his slick fist, makes Harry salivate.

“Will you fuck me tomorrow?”

“If you ask me nicely.” Severus still sounds breathless, his hips pushing up to bring his cock to Harry’s lips again. Then his hand is in Harry’s hair, his long fingers circling around the base of his shaft, and he’s rubbing the tip of his cock over Harry’s lips. Harry’s breath leaves him in a rush and he runs his tongue over the head of Severus’ cock, listening to the way Severus’ breathing falters above him.

“And after we leave? I could come to your house and you could fuck me there.”

“If you promise not to break things.” Severus really does sound a bit desperate now and it’s the best thing Harry’s ever heard. Then his voice turns low and liquid smooth. “It’s quite possible I may want to see you in my office from time to time.”

“Fuck, yes.” The images that conjures up are almost enough to make Harry hard again. A rush of pleasure runs through his body and he bats Severus’ hand away from his cock. “Let me. I want to.”

“Be my guest.”

Harry furrows his brow because Severus is starting to sound composed again now, which clearly means Harry isn’t doing his job properly. He decides that talking can wait and he licks along Severus’ cock until it’s slick and damp with his saliva. He circles the head of it with his mouth after taking his time getting Severus grumbling in a slightly breathless fashion about Harry being a tease. 

He takes the long, thick weight of Severus as deep as he can. He squeezes his hands on Severus’ thighs because he wants to hear him. He wants Severus to like it as much as Harry does. He savours every inch of Severus’ cock as it slides into his mouth, back and in again. He relaxes his throat and takes him as deep as he can and the motion makes Severus jerk up off the bed and into Harry’s throat. The sharp pull of Severus’ hand in his hair and the motion of Severus pushing between his parted lips makes Harry shiver with pleasure. He pulls up a little to slide his tongue over the underside of Severus’ cock and he moves down again with a low, rumbling moan of pleasure which he hopes sends delicious vibrations along the length.

He takes his time sucking Severus until there’s nothing coming from Severus’ mouth but jagged exhales and the odd _Harry_ which sends pulses of pleasure through Harry’s veins. He tongues over Severus, listening to every hitch and gasp of breath and adjusting his motions until he’s pretty sure he’s giving Severus one of the best blow jobs of his life. He can tell when Severus is close by the low murmur of his name and the tug to his hair. It’s all he can do to nod, sinking back down because he wants to taste Severus. He wants to feel him pulsing in his mouth and coming down his throat. With a ragged groan, Severus pushes up once and then he’s coming hard. Harry swallows everything and pulls up only when Severus has finished, pulling off him slowly and shifting up to capture Severus’ lips in a fierce kiss. He dimly wonders if Severus minds this languid, tongue heavy kiss which is filthy and hot, Harry’s mouth tasting of Severus. He doesn’t seem to, if the way he gathers Harry close and responds in kind is any indication.

When they break apart, Severus rubs the back of his hand over his eyes and murmurs something which sounds like, “You’re going to be the death of me.”

Harry traces his fingers over the scar on Severus’ neck before Severus catches his hand and brings it to his lips for a brief kiss. “I kissed you before tonight. Did you know?” The secret bursts from him, not as Harry thought it might, in a rush of passion. Instead it’s a slow, languid statement and it doesn’t really feel like that big a secret after all.

“I did.” Severus lifts the covers, indicating that Harry should get under them. “Come on, then.”

Pleased at being invited to stay, Harry shifts under the duvet and presses close to Severus. “I’m sorry. You probably thought it was weird.”

Severus snorts softly, his fingers running up and down Harry’s spine. “No more peculiar than a lot of the things you do.”

Harry thinks about the crowd of people gathering downstairs for breakfast and wonders what it will be like when he and Severus go to join them. There’s everyone he loves here. The people he’s closest to in the world. He moves closer to Severus, resting his head on his chest and smiling when Severus tightens his arm to pull Harry closer. “I didn’t know you were so close to Molly and Arthur.”

Severus’ fingers still and he lets out a quiet _hmm_. “No. Not particularly.”

Harry tips his head to find Severus’ dark eyes in the soft light of the morning which filters into the room. “But they invited you here?”

“Arthur asked me if I would consider attending.” Severus runs his fingers through Harry’s hair, his gaze never faltering. “He seemed to think you might require…assistance. If you intend to brew potions in the Ministry on a regular basis, it’s probably wise that you have adequate supervision to ensure you don’t blow us all up.”

Harry thinks back to his conversation with Arthur at the Ministry and warmth spreads through his body. Now he’s even more pleased he spent so long choosing the best gift for Molly and Arthur. 

“I imagine I’ll need lots of supervision. I’m really just getting started.” Harry noses at Severus’ chest and earns himself a sleep-heavy hum of agreement.

“You’re a menace.”

Harry smiles and closes his eyes to let sleep claim him. “But I’m your menace.”

When he doesn’t hear any protest, Harry slowly drifts off with Severus’ fingers running through his hair.

 

~ * ~

 

_Your hand slips into his and you use it to ask the question you can’t bring yourself to say out loud. The world doesn’t turn and the clocks stop. You stand on a crevice in time and watch the promise of a future flicker behind his eyes._

_The morning is bright, snow-crisp blue. There’s laughter in the room next door and he takes your cheek in the palm of his hand._

_“Look at me.”_

_You look and, finally, you see._

_His cheeks are flush with cool winter air. His hand is firm and strong in yours. The smallest smile carries the memory of the night that came before and he’s grey-warm cashmere against your chest and a secret smile that only you will ever see. His breath is warm against your face when he whispers something that’s just for you. You want him so badly it makes your chest tight and your lungs burn. You wonder if you’ll want him forever; if perhaps you always have. You’ll live a thousand more tomorrows with his heart beating against your chest and his bitter-coffee kisses against your lips._

_That’s how it is. Just a moment suspended in time and an open door where people are already calling your name, a hush descending as they take in his hand in yours and everything it means. The way you only have eyes for each other. The unspoken questions that are loud in the small space between you and them._

_So you kiss him. Not because everyone hasn’t already figured it out but because you want to and he lets you._

_You kiss him because you think you might die without one. You kiss him because it’s the unexpected rush of need that overpowers you when he’s around. It makes your body heat with the possibility of those thousand different promises you might yet get to keep._

_But most of all, you kiss him because in his arms you’re always that boy._

_The boy who believes in magic._


End file.
